A Seminal Moment
by geekmama
Summary: Post TFP established Sherlolly sexy times based on a prompt from tumblr's holidaysat221b: 'Molly loves wearing Sherlock's house robes' as requested by @mel-loves-all.


_**~ A Seminal Moment ~**_

 _With thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for looking this over. Based on a prompt from holidaysat221b: 'Molly loves wearing Sherlock's house robes' requested by mel-loves-all. I am assuming 'house robes' refers to dressing gowns, rather than the Harry Potter sort?_

* * *

"What are you doing? You can't give _that_ to charity!"

Molly's been in the bedroom for the last half hour, sorting through their clothing and filling a box with items that are either unacceptably out of style (his) or somewhat worse for wear (his and hers, as each of their careers is potentially ruinous to even the most carefully chosen habiliments). Now, however, she looks up at Sherlock in sympathy and says, "I know! It breaks _my_ heart, too. It used to be my favorite of your dressing gowns, but this stain on the shoulder won't come out, I've tried, and I've sent it to the dry cleaners twice. I'm afraid it's time."

Sherlock knows her point is valid: the aftermath of Rosie's first foray into the gastronomic delights of pureed applesauce and blueberries will not soon be forgotten. Yet he's already opened his mouth to protest when his beloved speaks again.

"Do you remember that time _I_ wore it? After that one case? A couple of weeks before Rosie was born?"

Molly is looking down, fondly stroking the fine camel coloured material, and she doesn't see Sherlock's reaction to her words… doesn't see the flush that can't be avoided as the vision comes rushing out to assail him from what is now the Molly Hooper Wing of his Mind Palace (delicately Rococo in decor, yet redolent of comfort… joy… _love_ ).

The memory of that late afternoon when they'd returned to 221B, both of them laughing and soaked from a sudden and surprisingly violent rainstorm, is precisely why that garment should not be given away.

Oh, he remembers. How he'd turned to her with an offer of hot tea on his lips (since Mrs. Hudson was still at a matinee with Mr. Chatterjee) and was arrested at the sight of his Molly (he had already been thinking of her as "his" for some time, he now realizes) blithely stripping off her cardigan to reveal the light, flowered frock beneath, a garment wholly inadequate to the changeable weather. It was now dripping, clinging, and deliciously - _disconcertingly-_ semi-transparent.

Really, it's quite astonishing how a single moment can alter one's views so dramatically.

A step forward… her startled gaze… his left arm slipping about her slender shoulders… his right hand caressing the delicate, tantalizing curve of damp, veiled breast… his thumb brushing the erect, pebbled peak, drawing a gasp - surprise? delight? - even as their lips meet... the rush of blood… the soft moan…

"Oh, dear! Sorry!" had been her actual words, however, as she'd clutched her wet jumper to her chest, still laughing - probably at his stunned expression. "Can I use one of your dressing gowns while I throw these in the dryer?"

"Yes… yes, of course." He'd cleared his throat and blurted, "I'll make tea," as he'd retreated into the kitchen.

His own clothes had been only slightly damp, protected as they had been by his Belstaff, so he hadn't bothered to change himself, just made hot tea and sat down, trying to regain his equilibrium. Presently she had emerged again. He remembers thinking how well the camel color of his dressing gown contrasted with her hair, which was still wet but had been combed out and twisted into a neat updo. There was still a smile on her lips, and in her eyes, and her cheeks had been pink with happiness and good health. The sash of his dressing gown was tight about her trim waist, and the mere suggestion of curves beneath the soft material, the feminine swell of breast and hip, had been enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his chair.

 _How is it I've never really noticed these things before?_ he remembers thinking.

He'd watched in fascination as she'd moved gracefully about, then sat demurely in John's old chair to drink her tea, her eyes warm upon him while he tried to look nonchalant.

He knows, now, what the real question had been.

"Sherlock?" comes her uncertain voice.

Uncertain, but amused, too.

He pulls himself together. Goes to her, and takes the dressing gown out of her hands, and sets it aside.

Kisses her.

She is surprised, but quickly overcomes it, and laughingly reaches up, her hand cool against his cheek.

When she finally can, she says, a little breathlessly, "You _do_ remember!"

"Bed," he tells her, and sweeps her up.

"But-"

"No," he says, firmly. Many things are pleasingly, demandingly firm at this particular moment.

And fortunately she seems to understand that, for she only sighs in surrender and when he lays her down, says, just before he kisses her, "I love you."

"Thank God," he murmurs in reply, and wonders that such an utterance seems not sacrilegious but, on the contrary, entirely appropriate to the occasion.

~.~

.


End file.
